


His Right-Hand Man

by sweetcarolanne



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Comrades in Arms, Devotion, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Intrigue, Loyalty, M/M, Older Characters, Politics, Romance, Trust, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8019001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcarolanne/pseuds/sweetcarolanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A world leader confides his hopes and fears to his secretary as their country moves from a state of war towards peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Right-Hand Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youtomyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youtomyme/gifts).



> Many thanks to my beta, who wishes to remain anonymous.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: These characters are fictional and not intended to resemble any real person, living or dead. None of these events are meant to resemble anything from history or the present day.
> 
> Dear recipient, I hope this is something like what your wanted - I saw your prompt and the fic just seemed to want to write itself! :)

He is no longer the beautiful young man he once was – the long years of struggle to build a nation, the taxing burdens of leadership, and the stresses and strains of war have aged him and driven him almost to the brink of mental and physical collapse. Yet he is still magnificent, having risen above what would have destroyed a lesser human being, and he has emerged from life’s torments with a strength of purpose that has garnered him the respect of the rest of the world’s leaders, and the near-worship of his people. Although thirteen years my senior, he has weathered the storms of political existence far better than I have. 

His face is deeply lined and his hair is flecked with gray – unkempt from his constantly running his hands through it in agitation as he sits up most of the night to work. In his eyes, however, I see the fervent passion of yesteryear still alive, an immortal flame that animates both him and those who follow him towards victory. 

And in the rare moments when he smiles at some blissful memory from the past, I am reminded of how he was in his youth. A lover and a warrior, a man of ideas so potent that merely to listen to him speak made those who heard him ready to lay down their lives. My dearest friend from the first moment we spoke – for him, I left my wife and children, sacrificing the comfortable life I led for one of uncertainty and risk of death, all for the sake of being close to him and basking in his reflected glory.

I asked nothing from him except to fight at his side, to serve him in any way he required and devote my life to our just cause of overthrowing tyranny and making our people proud and great once more. There was no hope, I told myself, of anything beyond that. His first and only love was for our country, and the pursuit of freedom for all. Women of every age and class fell madly in love with him, yet none of them ever managed to ensnare his heart. 

All I wanted was to be his right-hand man, the humble secretary who did as his leader ordered and who kept all his secrets safe. I was content to live my life alone for him, immersed in my vocation with the sheer devotion of a monk. 

But on that night when he first kissed me, his lips sweet with wine and his hands warmed by the fire we lay beside to drive away the winter’s chill, I was ready to die for him.

As I have been ever since.

Last evening, as I sat across from him and swiftly scribbled in shorthand the words he dictated, he rose from his chair and sighed deeply. I noticed how thin he had become, how frail he seemed beneath the harsh and unrelenting light above him. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and the tendons stood out on the backs of his emaciated hands as he began to pace.

“Peace will come soon, my friend,” he said softly as he finally stopped before my chair. “God willing, I will live to see it. Yet I fear for my sanity – these past few years of bloodshed and despair have driven me to the edge of madness more than once.”

“Madness? Never!” I declared stoutly, and stood to face him, my eyes widened with shock and my hands clenched defensively. “You are the guiding light of this nation, and without you, we would not be on the path to ending this war. No other leader could have accomplished what you have.” 

I would have said more, but he laid an affectionate yet stern hand upon my shoulder, indicating that I should no longer speak, and I obediently fell silent.

“My deputy is an ambitious and selfish man,” he continued, his dark eyes looking intently into mine. “If I do not survive and he takes power, beware of him! Be on guard, for I want you to be safe. I fear that he will dispose of all who have been close to me. Do not trust him, not even while I am alive. If I make it through to the end of the war, I will ensure that he is removed from office. But for now we cannot afford dissension in our ranks.”

He sighed again, and pulled me into his arms. I murmured his name, embracing him in turn and relaxing against his warm body.

“Lie with me tonight, as you did when we were comrades in arms,” he whispered, and I nodded to show my willingness as he leaned in to claim my lips with a gentle kiss.


End file.
